Solitary
by NotMarge
Summary: Alex Summers, smart aleck pretty boy mutant. But the question is why?


I still do not own X-Men.

More's the pity.

Solitary

* * *

><p>It was quiet.<p>

It was still.

It was always was.

In solitary confinement.

And that was just the way he preferred it.

No surprises. No interruptions.

Just the quiet. The still.

And him.

Everything ran on a schedule. Everything followed on a strict set of rules, procedures.

Everything inside a neat, clean little box.

He didn't talk to anyone and no one talked to him.

It was easier that way.

He couldn't hurt anybody in here.

Not anymore.

He sat on the hard, thin cot. Head hanging, back bowed down the weight of past sins, past mistakes, past regrets.

And stared at his hands.

Those hands.

He closed his eyes.

And saw those hands again.

Younger, more childlike.

Happily folded in his mother and father's hands as they walked along the beach in Honolulu. Walking toward the gently breaking shoreline.

He loved the warm, sandy beach.

Every Sunday.

No more military. No more school.

Just sun and water and Mom and Dad and Scott.

Just for a little while.

_Want to splash in the surf, Alex?_

Those trembling little hands.

Gripping his ragged teddybear, as they drove away from their little house toward the airstrip. Patting the soft brown fur of the toy, pretending it was Teddy that was sad to be moving away to a land of ice and snow. Teddy and not him.

Dad said Santa's reindeer took their vacations there.

Scott said there were boy-eating bears there.

Mom said there were dogs with sleds that would pull you wherever you wanted to go.

And he thought that part would be okay.

_It will be a family adventure, Alex._

He opened his adult blue eyes, as ice-cold now as that land of Alaska had been then.

Studied his hands.

Saw past them.

And into the ghosts of the past.

Feeling the screaming wind, the bone-rattling tremors of the broken, falling plane.

Hearing the carefully cloaked fear in his mother's voice as she instructed him not to let go of his brother's hand.

Seeing his father's face locked in a rictus of grim determination.

They had found them. Somehow. Alex didn't know who 'they' were but 'they' were attacking the plane, crashing it right out of the sky.

And Alex didn't want to jump.

Hands. Hands.

Mother's hands fastening the straps around his thin chest.

Father's hands pulling his and Scott's hands together.

Shouting not to let go. Shouting for the boys to stay together. Last parachute. Only them. Must be brave.

_Love you. Love you. Remember we love you. Good boy. We love you._

Seeing the tears unshed in their eyes.

Scared. So scared.

And falling. So far. All in the white.

And tumbling down into the freezing snow, rolling wildly, out of control.

Screaming, crying.

Vaguely sensing a fire, a heat, brightness of color fading away as the world turned over and over.

He had lost his grip on his brother's hand.

But somehow found him again in the ice and snow.

Scott, sleeping. Blood running cold on his head.

Hands. Numb hands.

Stuffed inside thick heavy mittens. Still cold, still numb.

Waving desperately at people all in puffy Eskimo jackets.

Hands. Clammy hands.

Clamped onto each other as he and his brother walked around the big, scary building with the big, frowny lady.

_Not a home. Want to go home, Scott._

Orphanage. Home for boys with no homes. No parents.

Hands. Desperate hands.

Reaching back, stretching out for his brother's hand.

Taken away to live somewhere else.

Without his brother. Or mother. Or father.

_It's okay, Alex. It'll be okay._

Hands. Pale, thin hands. Lady hands. Nice lady hands. Buttoning up his shirt.

Not his shirt. The dead son's shirt, now his.

Be like him and make them happy. Be like him and make them happy.

_But I'm not happy._

'Good boy. We love you.' Echoing in his head. Always echoing.

Except he wasn't a good boy. Not anymore.

Now he was a killer.

And he didn't mean to be.

The man kidnapping the girl. Her screaming. Him shouting.

Trying to help. Trying to save them.

Fire.

Rings of fiery energy exploding from everywhere around him.

Uncontrollable. Unstoppable.

The girl falling to the ground, her assailant incinerated in a stink of burning hair and melting flesh.

Because of him.

And his hands.

_Never again._

Freak. He was a freak. A dangerous, bad freak.

Such a normal, ordinary person on the outside. Such a dangerous, bad freak on the inside.

Closing himself off. In dread. In fear. In self-loathing.

Withdrawn.

Without friend or ally.

Because if he stayed to himself, then nobody else would get hurt.

His power was a wild, untamable thing.

And so he must lock everything up inside, push everything away.

Be a creature unto himself.

So nobody else would get hurt.

It was his sacrifice, his expense.

His decision.

And now Alexander Summers sat alone in his colorless, dead prison cell.

Grateful for the isolation.

For it was the only way to be truly safe.

For those out there to be truly safe.

From him.

And so he would stay here and rot in this cell.

As long as it took.

Though sometimes he did miss playing a mean pinball.

Footsteps. Footsteps in the corridor.

He ignored them. Footsteps always in the corridor.

Slowing now.

Ignored that too.

A guard to check on him. Make sure he hadn't strangled himself with his own shoelaces or something.

_Whatever. Move along, Screw._

Key rattling in the lock. Door opening. Voices.

Jerking his head up, glaring suspiciously at the warden with his nerd glasses and pitiful comb-over.

More men peeking in at him.

"Get up, Summers. Let's go."

_Go? Go where?_

Alex Summers ran one hand over his short, blond hair.

Contemplated just sitting there defiantly until they drug him up by his shorthairs. Or beat him to his feet.

Looked at the two guys again. One tall. One short. One grim. One smiling.

And wondered what they wanted.

Then an accented voice, prim and proper and pretentious, echoed in his head.

_Hello, Alex._

He frowned deeper, eyebrows knitting together like stormclouds above his distrustful gaze.

And stood up.

* * *

><p><strong>Wait, I didn't write about Hank? Huh. That's interesting. *smirks<strong>

**Flashes of backstory here based on off comic cannon. 'Cause there's a reason Alex is such an anal sphincter sometimes, right?**

**Anyways, this one's for MoonlitShadowsoftheHumanSoul, who is a sincere, deeply loyal, Alex fan. Last time I checked.**

**Figured I had some repenting to do for my ruthless exposition of Alex throughout my X-Men fics.**

**Better, sweetie?**

**Thank you to MoonlitShadowsoftheHumanSoul, AnnaStormRogers, brigid1318, Aletta-Feather, ChiefPam, Tala14, Monstrous Walnut, and ABewilderedBear for taking the time to review this story.**

**Thanks to gingerrogers12345 for adding your support to this tale.**

**Well, everyone appreciates feedback. Leave a review if you like.**


End file.
